


Angel Dust: The Demon Escort of Fleet Street

by R_Black



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sweeney Todd Fusion, Asexual Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Asexual Character, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, I wouldn't read this as RadioDust but there's nothing against you doing so, POV Alternating, Prostitution, background Charlie/Vaggie, this is Sweeney Todd after all c'mon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:20:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21727429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Black/pseuds/R_Black
Summary: Angelo De Luca was framed years ago and wrongfully imprisoned. Desperately wanting to get revenge and freedom again, he strikes a deal with a demon and escapes with a new form and a new name: Angel Dust. Aided by his new patron—a charming cannibal named Alastor—Angel moves back home and becomes a famous and deadly escort, waiting patiently to get revenge on the bastard who wronged him and screwed his family over.Sweeney Todd AU, Victorian era. Demons and otherworldly creatures just exist in this reality and no one really questions it.
Relationships: Alastor & Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor & Husk & Niffty (Hazbin Hotel), Charlie Magne/Vaggie, not ship-centric - Relationship
Comments: 10
Kudos: 57





	1. There's No Place Like London

On a particularly foggy day in Victorian London, a dark ship pulled into the harbor. The mist swirled around the bow as it lazily floated through the water. Its sails were dirty and wind-worn, its wood crusted with salt. Most of the sailors aboard rushed to get everything ready for port, largely ignoring the view that drifted past.

Only two figures stood still on the ship, two guests aboard the ship that had bartered passage out of nowhere. One was clad in a red fur coat—a necessity in the still-chilled air—and dark red pants tucked into black, red-toed boots. A well-worn top hat adorned his head, obscuring a pair of small antlers underneath but not the two long cervine ears that reached taller than the hat itself. The ears were blood red, tipped with black, and faded perfectly with the figure’s similarly colored, chin-length hair. If a sailor chose to observe, they would note the figure had an unwavering grin plastered across his face, teeth sharper than any shark’s and permanently stained yellow. His eyes were what made the sailors try _not_ to look, though; they were piercing bright red irises that floated in darker, blood-red sclerae. It was enough to glance at once and never want to look at again.

The second figure was even more of a mystery to the other sailors. He was slightly taller than the red deer man, legs long and spindly with pants that definitely weren’t long enough to cover them. Large boots made up the difference, but not by much. His coat was also made of fur, but it was ratty, as if he’d skinned a beast and sewn a shoddy coat in his haste to escape the cold of the sea air. A borrowed, far-too-large sailor’s cap sat on his head, obscuring most of his face. If the sailors caught any sight of him, it was that he had scruffy white fur and/or hair, or maybe they’d seen two mismatched eyes (one with yellow sclera and one with black) in the shadows below deck and thought _Nope_.

The two were demons. This was a fact no one could deny. Hell, some of the crew happened to be lower demons themselves, beyond inhuman and useful for hired muscle. Demons were as numerous as humans, and that was just the way things were. No one really questioned it, nor did they acknowledge exactly how some demons came to be. If two demons wanted passage to London and they paid well, who would dare deny them?

* * *

The shabbier, spindlier figure exhaled slowly as the ship sailed under the London Bridge.

“Everything all right?” the cervine demon asked casually behind him. His voice always sounded like he was speaking through a tin can in a hailstorm. No one—not even the demon himself—really understood why.

“Just…nerves,” the first demon said. “It’s been about ten years, y’know?”

“And in that amount of time many things can change.” Red eyes glowed dangerously. “And yet the basics never do.”

The first demon caught a whiff of something unpleasant. His face scrunched up. “Like the stench of humanity. London’s always been a fuckin’ pit. Covered in shit and riddled with vermin.”

“But now you are no longer one of those vermin,” the deer said gleefully. “Where, once, you were a mere pissant fly for others to squish…” He reached up and lifted the brim of his companion’s hat. “…Now you are a spider, fit to devour any who dare threaten you.”

The spider—for that was, indeed, his demonic species—sneered. He adjusted his cap roughly. “Spiders can still get squished.”

The red demon shrugged, unperturbed. “I’m sure you’ll find a way out from under that shoe, my friend.”

The spider returned his gaze to the approaching docks. Everything truly looked more or less the same, if a bit…dirtier. Was it just that London had gotten grosser since he’d been away, or was it the fact that he was no longer human that made the city’s mess shine brighter?

His mind wandered to just two years prior, when he’d been rotting in a prison cell, still human. He’d been starved to near-death and felt so ill he probably was on his way out. It’d been months since anyone except a guard had even so much as looked at him. And it had been longer still since he’d wanted to live.

At one point, he remembered just lying on the dank ground, the moon rising from a high window his only light source. He’d cried out in anguish, hoping he could just fucking die already. Wishing that nobody would come in time when he tried to kill himself for the twentieth time.

Perhaps as a stroke of fortune, someone _had_ shown up. This time, they’d visited before he attempted to take his own life again. From his place on the floor of his cell, he couldn’t see them, but he heard them loud and clear.

 _“Smile, dear boy,”_ the visitor had said. _“After all, you’re never fully dressed without one!”_

He’d told that visitor to piss off, yet they’d stayed. Stayed well into the night and even into the next day. Ever patient. Ever vigilant. None of the guards even acknowledged them as they threw him his breakfast. Eventually, curiosity won over, and he asked what it was the visitor wanted.

_“Consider me invested in your plight. I’ve been traveling around, feeling something…off. Anguish and turmoil unbefitting of this world. It led me here, to you, dear boy.”_

He hadn’t given a reply for that. Didn’t need to. He was in a fucking prison, on an island in the middle of fucking nowhere. A regular _Château d'If_ , if he could recall the comparison. Of course he was anguished! What fucker wouldn’t?

 _“I’m here to offer you something different,_ ” the visitor had said. _“A chance at freedom—at vengeance! Your soul cries out in agony and betrayal—and that’s the kind of soul that gives the best entertainment! Souls like you end up making the world more interesting!”_

Once again, he’d told the guy to piss off. And once again, the visitor had ignored him.

_“Wouldn’t you rather be free? Be out there, in a new form, a new body? Free to start anew?”_

It was tempting, he’d admitted to himself. After all, what prisoner wouldn’t want to try starting a new life out there? After a few minutes of silence, he finally asked what he’d have to do.

_“Allow me to be your patron.”_

And there it was. If he hadn’t realized it earlier when the guards didn’t acknowledge them, he’d realized it in that moment: The visitor was a demon, offering him immortality and freedom for his own soul. That was how some demons came to be, after all; through deals made with higher demons. If a human wanted to be something _more_ , all he had to do was sign his fucking soul away. Simple as that.

Most patrons didn’t really want anything sinister when it came to owning souls. As far as he was aware, only the highest, most powerful demons had use for souls contracted to them. Usually, if a turned demon had a patron, it just meant they were bound to them until the end of either party’s long life. If the patron wanted his contracted partner to do something, then the lesser demon would have to do it. Otherwise, the contracted soul was free to live their own life—as long as it was within the territory or sight of their patron.

He’d sat there in silence, contemplating the pros and cons of such a deal. He had no idea who this demon was, why they’d gone out of their way to come to him, or even what their motives were. And they probably had no idea what he wanted to do with his freedom, they had no idea how much hate and rage boiled just underneath the surface.

Really, what was there to lose? His soul? Fuck his soul, it never did him any good to have it. His morality? Fuck that too, look where trying to be a good person brought him.

His own vengeful motives, paired with a healthy dose of morbid curiosity, won out in the end. He’d agreed to become a demon without much of a fuss.

His new patron— _“The name’s Alastor, dear boy,”_ he’d said—had cast a powerful spell cloaking his cell. The guards no longer came to feed or check up on him. No one did. It was like they’d forgotten he was there at all, or maybe they believed he’d finally died and decided to let his corpse rot.

Either way, no one was witness to the horrors of the next two years. In that dank, dreary cell, Alastor had changed him. He painfully twisted into something inhuman, then was forced to transform into something _resembling_ a human, then burst back. For two hellish years, he screamed in agony, feeling his bones shatter and reform, sensing his body create _new bones_ entirely and then lose them. Back and forth his body pulsed, from eldritch horror to semi-presentable human, never the same thing twice.

His mind was not spared this torture. He lost all of his intelligence the moment he initially transformed. He couldn’t have had a coherent thought even if he wanted to, reduced to either a mindless, hungry beast, or just mindless in general. His brainwaves would never reach his ever-shifting body, always too late to move any limb that either didn’t exist any longer or had moved to a new place.

Eventually, after a year and a half of this, his body and mind began to cooperate again. They finally were able to decide on a form best suited for his new soulless life. And after six months, he regained sentience and tested his new body gleefully. Three pairs of arms—two of which could seep into his torso at will—and pale, white fur that covered his entire body, complete with a giant mound of fluff on his chest shaped like women’s breasts pressed together. His eyes were mismatched, but it didn’t really bother him.

After learning how his new form worked, Alastor finally opened his cell door.

 _“And what would you like your new name to be?”_ Alastor had offered with his wolfish grin. _“After all, you can’t go around as your old self! It would make all of this a waste!”_

After a few moments’ consideration, he’d finally landed on a name.

Angel Dust.

“Angel,” Alastor called, somehow already off the ship and on the dock. “Come along! You must be itching to see your new lodgings!”

The spider snapped out of his reverie and jumped off the deck. The ship hadn’t fully docked yet, but he didn’t care.

Technically he didn’t have to take Alastor up on his offer to house Angel, but it wasn’t like the spider had any other choice. It was either stay with the deer or live on the streets.

He followed Alastor closely, still clutching his unneeded disguise tightly, as if someone would recognize him now that he was an entirely different species.

The sailors all let out sighs of relief, grateful the two mysterious demons had finally left the pier…

…though they weren’t exactly thrilled to later find one of those bastards had killed their quartermaster last week in his hunger, and had left only a leg behind.


	2. The Worst Pies in London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Did you come in for a pie, sir? Do forgive me if my head's a little vague. What is that?? But you'd think we had the plague!_  
>   
>  Angel is introduced to his new flat mates, and gets a free sample of their questionable cuisine.

Fleet Street was as unremarkable as any other street in London. In his former life, Angel had only walked through it to get to another destination. Maybe he’d looked in the direction of Madame Mooney’s Meat Pie Emporium once or twice, but he’d never really decided to go in.

He didn’t remember there being a pub at the center of the street, sitting at the fork of Fleet Street and East Braxton. With its fortuitous placement, Angel thought perhaps the traffic would flow right into the pub itself. Yet, upon further inspection, there were no customers to be seen. The building wasn’t the worst-looking on the street, but it certainly was deteriorating and molding in places obvious to the passerby. The outdoor patio, surrounded by a rotting fence and wrought iron gate, was hardly bustling with any sort of living thing save for the few bugs and roaches skittering around the tables and chairs. The pub’s windows were mismatched in both style and glass age; some panes were clearly newer than others, some were bowed in, and some were boarded up completely. The sign for the pub swung on a pole that jutted out from the building, positioned just between the first and second floor.

The second floor of the building was even shabbier than the first, thought it did have some nice bay windows with which one could overlook the street, but pedestrians would be hard-pressed to view through from their own positions. The windows up there were dirtier as well, probably from lack of care, but none had cracks or boards. An empty sign board sat next to the entrance of the second story, just beyond the outside staircase and walking balcony. This meant the second story could be used as a place of business, just like the pub, if anyone desired. A row of smokestacks rose from the roof, indicating either the pub had a giant fireplace or there was a bakehouse somewhere inside.

Alastor approached this building casually, as if he were returning home. Angel furrowed his brows. He pegged Al as a high-class demon—a neat freak, even. He hadn’t suspected Alastor might live in a dump like this.

 _Maybe I’d be better off on the streets after all_ , Angel mused to himself as he followed the deer demon. _This place doesn’t even look like it has running water!_

He glanced at the hanging sign. It was in the shape of a shield, with a blood red stag head wearing a top hat and a monocle branded into the wood. Fancy, cursive words _The Dapper Deer_ haloed the emblem. Out of everything outside, it seemed the least touched by rot and time. In fact, it almost looked pristine by comparison.

Alastor opened the door, a little bell dinging as he did so. He held the door open and gestured for Angel to go first. The spider passed him with a small thanks.

The inside of the pub was…about as shabby as the outside. Maybe an inch of dust covered most of the tables, the chairs looked as if they hadn’t moved in the last century, and various bugs and rodents scurried to and fro. The entire place smelled of mildew, cigar smoke, and booze.

The bar was just about the cleanest part of the whole place, the counter polished nicely and the bottles and glasses sparkling. The stools weren’t quite as decrepit as the table chairs, but some still looked like they might crumble any minute. None of them were covered in dust, either.

Polishing one of the glasses was a winged anthropomorphic cat. His fur pattern was literally like a tuxedo, complete with button spots, and his wings and eyebrows were crimson. Either he didn’t notice Angel enter or he just didn’t care.

“A CUSTOMER!” someone yelled.

Angel nearly jumped out of his skin at the loud noise. In the blink of an eye, a very small woman with one big eye rushed out from another room. Her magenta hair seemed rather short, even while up in a loose bun. Her dress looked kinda like a cake in dress form, all yellow and pink and fluffy, but the bottom was dragging against the dirty floor, dyed grey from all the intimacy with dust bunnies.

Her single pupil shrank to a tiny dot as she approached Angel. “It’s been so long since we’ve had a new face! Welcome to the Dapper Deer! I’m Niffty, would you like a booth or bar seat?”

She bounced as she spoke. Angel tried to give her a small smile, though he was certain it was falling flat. “Err,” he groaned. “Bar, I guess?”

She grabbed on of his hands and practically threw him onto a bar stool. He sat down with a grunt, which gained the attention of the barkeep.

The cat cast a surprised glance his way, then set down the glass. “Are you lost, pal?” he asked, voice gruff and hard.

“Uh, no,” Angel answered.

“Then, what’ll it be?”

“The finest rum, and it’s on the house!” Alastor chirped, stepping fully into the pub. “Two glasses if you please, Husker!”

The cat sighed dejectedly. “Should’ve known…”

A big bottle of rum was produced and within seconds a glass full of the stuff was shoved into Angel’s hands. Alastor took a glass for himself and held it in a silent toast. Then, the liquid disappeared in a single chug. Angel was impressed.

The cat demon refilled the glass as soon as Alastor placed it on the counter. Angel took a swig of his own rum, surprised the booze actually tasted pretty decent. Then again, Alastor had said ‘the finest rum,’ so of course it would be good.

“So, who’s the new guy, then?” the cat asked.

Alastor didn’t drink the second glass, but he still held onto it. “Friends, meet Angel Dust. Angel, these two are Niffty—” he gestured to the cyclops woman. “—and Husker!” Another gesture to the cat.

“Hello,” Niffty chirped.

Husker twitched an ear.

“Angel, here, is the newest tenant,” Alastor announced. “He’ll be staying up on the second story!”

“Oh, yay!” Niffty clapped and bounced on the balls of her feet. “It’s nice to meet you, Angel Dust! Are you some sort of trapper? I mean, you’re very dirty and kinda smelly, and your coat looks really fresh, so I’m really only assuming…”

She was prattling on at the speed of light, making Angel’s head spin. Finally, he held up a hand to silence her.

“I used to be a tailor’s apprentice,” he supplied. “But, uh…I don’t plan on primarily being a tailor.”

“If I were you, I would maybe study a little harder,” Niffty said with a giggle. She gestured to his coat wordlessly.

“Oh, like you got such a fine establishment,” Angel growled.

Niffty stamped her little feet. Was she a child or a grown woman?

Husker had managed to snag Alastor’s second glass and was now drinking from it. Alastor didn’t seem to mind. After a big gulp, the cat grunted, “Finer than your coat.”

“You should try some of Husker’s pies,” Niffty chirped. “They’re not the _best_ pies in London—could use a little salt…”

She trailed off as she scurried into another room behind the bar. Within a few seconds, she was back and shoving a plate into Angel’s face. On the plate sat a small pie, runny with uncooked…filling. He honestly didn’t know what the filling was supposed to be. The whole pie was pale, as if it hadn’t been in the oven long enough.

Husker swiped the pie off the plate with a hiss. “Niffty, I told you not to give people unfinished food! This thing isn’t ready yet!”

“Well, where’s the _actual_ pies?”

“On the kitchen counter, where they always are!”

Alastor snapped his fingers. The uncooked pie vanished from Husker’s paws and a burnt pie appeared on Angel’s plate. A startled roach flitted away, apparently transported with the pie.

“There you are,” Alastor beamed. “Fresh out of the oven.”

Angel grimaced at the pastry. “Do I have to?”

“Consider it a gesture of good will to your new flat mates!”

Husker groaned. Niffty grinned.

Angel licked his lips, hesitated only a moment, and bit down. It took all of his willpower to actually rip the piece he’d bitten off and put it fully on his tongue. Tears welled up in his eyes. What flavor was this? Carpet? Oh, there was another bug in there, literally cooked within it—ironically, it was the most appetizing part of the pie. As he chewed, something that wasn’t the bug exploded into liquid instead of smaller chunks.

He spat it out onto the floor, gagging.

Niffty zoomed away and came back with a broom and pan. As she swept up the sludge that had previously invaded Angel’s mouth, she said, “They’re not that bad. They just need a little salt.”

“I gotta disagree,” Angel muttered dangerously, trying to drown out the taste with the rum. Husker refilled his glass without a word.

Alastor swiped a finger across the plate, right through the odd liquid filling that probably wasn’t supposed to be liquid in the first place. He licked his finger and a shockwave bristled through him, fluffing up his hair and fur. His eyes widened, but he didn’t drop his smile.

“A little more than salt next time, Husker,” Alastor remarked. “Perhaps something more edible?”

“It ain’t like I’m a cook!” the cat complained. “I never claimed to be and yet I’m the one everyone expects to make a meal!”

“At least you serve decent booze,” Angel said offhandedly. “You got that going for you.”

“Damn straight,” Husker grunted. He popped a cork out of another bottle and took a swig. “I’ve been tryin’ to convince Niffty to just advertise this as a bar, but she’s determined to serve food.”

Alastor chuckled. “You just haven’t found the right niche, my good friend!”

“Maybe if you tried whatever’s in that Meat Pie Emporium…” Angel started.

Husker hissed him into silence. “That bitch is servin’ pussycats! All her neighbor’s cats keep disappearin’ and she keeps tryin’ to lure me into her torture chamber! Like Hell I’m gonna follow her into her open oven!”

Angel shrugged. “Was just a suggestion...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, I know Niffty is a neat freak, but please bear with the pub being decrepit. After all, if it wasn't a shabby piece of shit in the beginning, then how would it be transformed into something livable in act two??


	3. Poor Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She wasn't no match for such craft, you see. And everyone thought it so droll..._
> 
> Angel can't keep his secret from his new neighbors for long, especially when he hears what happened to his sister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since both chapters ended up being on the short side, I decided to post this one, too. Hope you all enjoy!

“You mentioned you were a tailor’s apprentice?” Alastor asked.

Angel was glad for the change in topic, since the last one had ended in awkward silence. “Yeah, I was pretty close to opening my own shop. Had a place lined up, was building all the bridges, etcetera etcetera…”

“So what happened?” Niffty asked.

Angel shrugged. “Had to, uh…go away for a bit. Family matters in…um…France. Had an aunt that needed me to take care of her and all that…”

The two new demons didn’t seem to call his bluff. They either shrugged (Husker) or gave him a thumbs-up (Niffty) in response.

“This town doesn’t need a new tailor,” Husker complained. “There’s one on every damn street, and every single one of them sells the same shit.”

“There used to be one a few blocks down,” Niffty said. “I think he got arrested.”

“Niffty, that was ten years ago,” Husker retorted.

Angel tried not to look guilty of anything. He sipped his rum, wishing the damn alcohol would kick in already.

“Well, what happened?” inquired Alastor. “I’m itching to hear a good story!”

Angel bit back a groan. Everyone looked at Husker expectantly, and the cat flattened his ears.

“Do I just do everything?” he complained.

"You're better at telling stories," Niffty encouraged. "I get distracted too easily."

"And I have _no idea_ what happened," Alastor added, grin sharp.

“Fine, here’s the gist: Ten years ago, there was some tailor guy getting real popular. Rumor had it he was doin’ some nasty business on the side, though. He and his brother and sister were part of some big crime family, big mob guys based out of Italy. Who knows why they moved here, or why one of 'em decided to be a tailor in the first place.

“Anyway, they ended up fightin’ over something. No one knows what it was, but the tailor guy ended up shootin’ his brother in the fuckin’ face!”

“Wait, I thought the brother shot the tailor,” Niffty piped up. “And then the tailor stabbed the brother to death?”

“Whatever. Point is, the tailor killed his brother and the police got that son of a bitch almost instantly. Shipped him off to Australia or something.”

Angel gritted his teeth. Australia would have been so much fucking better than where he’d ended up…

“What was the fellow’s name?” Alastor inquired. He innocently glanced at Angel, an action the spider most certainly didn’t miss.

“Fuck, uh…” Husk ran a claw across his eyebrows. “Looky-doo, Du Leek, some shit…De Luca! That was his name! Angelo De Luca.”

Angel didn’t meet anyone’s eyes, though he was sure Alastor was looking right at him. He knew it didn’t matter to Alastor what Angel had been—and what he’d done—since he was Angel’s patron and all. But still…it rubbed him the wrong way how backwards the story had been twisted.

He blamed the booze for his rising temper. And he would later blame what happened next on the alcohol, too.

He cleared his throat. “So…what happened to the sister?”

“Well, as far as I know, since she didn’t have any family left, she was sent to a workhouse. Then, she got picked up by that Valentino guy. Poor girl never had a chance…”

“Valentino?” Angel knew the bastard. It took every ounce of strength in him to act like he didn’t.

“Biggest pimp this side of the Thames,” Niffty explained. “He’s got brothels all over London. There’s one in Kensington, one up on Church Street, and a really creepy house of horrors up in Gray’s Inn Road.” She shuddered. “Some messed up stuff goes on in there…”

“Messed up stuff that fucked that poor girl up so much she broke,” Husker lamented. “Poor thing was broken so much that Valentino kicked her out on her ass for being a useless whore.”

Angel clenched his fist so hard he shattered the glass. Husker spat a curse and Niffty immediately tried to clean up the glass. Angel wiped his bloody hand on his coat, anger coursing through him. The alcohol had definitely kicked in, now, and he didn't have a chance at explaining his actions calmly.

“Aww, don’t ruin your coat,” Niffty whined.

Angel stood up and threw the damn piece of clothing on the ground, revealing himself in all his glory. He stood up straight, not bothering to hunch, which made him now taller than Alastor. He’d fixed up his prisoner’s rags to look like a tattered vest and breeches, which now looked especially odd on him. His extra arms—all four of them—ripped through the vest. His white fur bristled. The pink spots under his eyes looked like eyeballs waiting to wake up, but he held back the urge to let them take that form.

He snarled, “I’ll take that coat and make Valentino choke on it!” He rounded on Husker. “Did no one help her? Would no one offer her sanctuary?”

The cat’s ears dropped. “Uh…”

“Oh,” Niffty gasped. “You’re Angelo De Luca, aren’t you?”

Angel didn’t bother trying to hide it. If these two were going to be under the same roof as him, they’d figure it out sooner or later. “Where is she? Where is _my sister? Where is Molly_?”

“Pretty sure she poisoned herself,” Husker admitted. “Arsenic, from the apothecary around the corner.”

Angel roared. He took a stool and tried to throw it, only for it to be held in place above his head by a halo of red magic.

“Now, now, Angel,” Alastor admonished. “Let’s not destroy my property. Though this is Husker’s business, it’s still _my_ building, and I’ll not have you throwing all the furniture through the windows.”

“Ten years!” Angel spat. “Eight of them sweatin’ in a living hell, on a false fucking charge! Two of them in blind fucking pain, thinkin’ I’d come home and see my sister! That maybe it’d work out!”

He slammed a fist down on the counter, causing various bottles behind Husker to rattle. “You wanna know what happened? I got framed! My brother got shot in the head by another guy and I got pegged for it! And the judge got paid off to send me to rot!”

Alastor put a hand on Angel’s shoulder. “Which judge?”

“Judge Vox,” he spat.

The grip tightened on his shoulder, then loosened. “And is he the reason you took me up on my offer of patronage?”

“One of them, yeah. Valentino is definitely on my shit list, and if I ever find out who the fuck framed me, they’re on it too.”

“What are you gonna do?” Husker asked, arching an eyebrow. “Tailor their funeral suits and prick ‘em with needles til they die?”

Angel gave his best sinister grin. “I plan to lure ‘em right into my lap. I’ll make sure they can’t resist me, whether it be them wanting to fuck me…or kill me for challenging their business.”

“You don’t mean…”

“I do!” Angel posed dramatically, one leg up on the counter, arms flared in different positions, and eyes suddenly ready for the bedroom. “Lady and gentlecat, your new neighbor’s gonna be the best damn escort this town has ever _seen_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Valentino brothel locations (as well as the house of horrors) are actually based off of the true locations that belonged to Madame Mary Frances Jeffries, who owned them a bit under a hundred years after the fictional events of Sweeney Todd. I’m playing with timelines in this instance because this is fucking fanfiction.

**Author's Note:**

> Updates will be sporadic, but I plan to be working on this as quickly as possible~  
> To fit with the Victorian era timeline, of course there would be changes to characterizations, such as Alastor not being tied to radio stuff or being a radio host due to radios not being invented for another 100 years.


End file.
